The Garden
by cellostargalactica
Summary: Their marriage united Ferelden, though they are hardly a united front behind closed doors. Alistair and Anora believe they have nothing in common, but could they be mistaken? An exploration of what it is to love, and how it happens where you least expect.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: On my most recent playthrough of Dragon Age, I was especially interested in the Landsmeet and epilogue, and I found myself speculating at the kind of relationship Alistair and Anora would have as King and Queen of Ferelden. Would there ever be acceptance between them? Care? Love, even? I wondered, and from that this story came into being, because I found that dynamic too interesting to shelve on the plot bunny shelf.**

**Please leave me a review and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading, everyone!**

It seemed appropriate that it rained. Anora Mac Tir watched the heavy skies burst open, pelting the high windows of the Landsmeet chambers, and to her it was as if the Maker stretched out his hand in solidarity, in comfort. What was done here this day was wrong. It was _unjust._

Her father's blood soaked her dress at the knees, and she slipped in the fast growing pool of it, her skin scraping against the stone of the floor. Though she was not aware of doing so, she clasped his still warm hands in her own. His eyes stared upward, but they were blank now, lifeless. Unseeing.

For months she had watched those eyes grow darker, hooded with the invisible shadows he saw everywhere. She watched his brow crease under the strain of a fracturing nation, torn apart by unrest and a slowly advancing threat. She watched a hero become a villain. She watched, and she did not allow herself to turn away. She knew what her father had become.

But this. This was not the end her father deserved. Prison? Surely. He had committed terrible crimes with the aid of his confederate, Rendon Howe. The murder of the Couslands and the loss at Ostagar, not to mention her own kidnapping; those crimes were on their hands. But immediate execution, as if he were no more than a common criminal, was almost too much to bear.

But Anora did not cry. She grieved, but her grief was an invisible thing. She would not give the watching lords the pleasure of slavish wailing, gathered about her like ravenous dogs, eager for whatever scrap could be had.

With eyes of steel, she looked up from her father's face into the eyes of his killer, urging herself to betray nothing. Elissa Cousland met her gaze, and to Anora at first it was completely inscrutable. No one knew what Elissa the Warden thought. Her face was a guarded cage, her eyes one-way mirrors. But as the stare lengthened and grew in weight, she almost thought she saw something pass through Elissa's eyes. Regret, possibly. Grief. And though anger seared Anora's heart, the always present analytical voice in her wondered if Elissa was more than a remorseless killer.

The moment passed, and Elissa looked away. Behind her, Alistair rested one gauntleted hand on her shoulder, and an instant moment of wordless communication passed between them; Anora would have missed it had she not been watching. Though she had never seen the pair of them together before this day, she suddenly understood; she could not count on Elissa for her interests. She was ever in the pocket of the bastard, for they shared a closeness.

The time for grief was over. Her fate, and that of Ferelden would be decided in these next moments, and she had no interest in relinquishing her hold on what power she had fought for all her life. She folded her father's hands over his chest, so that apart from the ragged wound at his throat he could have been resting, and rose stiffly.

Arl Eamon spoke before she could, though. "We must decide now how Ferelden is to be ruled," he said in a voice that carried over the pelting rain. Though she had little love for Eamon, she could not deny he could command the attention of a room with skill.

She did not hesitate. "I have ruled this country with Cailan for years, and I am best suited to continue to rule because of that experience. I know what Ferelden needs."

"You are hardly a neutral party in this, Anora," Eamon retorted, his steely eyes narrowing.

"And I'm sure you realize you are not, as well," Anora shot back. "Who then shall mediate objectively?"

She knew what Eamon would say before he said it, and yet it still sent her blood boiling in temper. "The Warden shall mediate."

Anora bit back the derisive laugh, as such indulgences would not serve her cause, but she did not hide the fierceness in her tone. "The Warden will see to the interests of the order before those of Ferelden. She'll put her comrade on the throne even though he has no experience or inclination to rule."

"Alistair has royal blood!" Eamon fumed. "He is of Therein ilk and has more claim to the throne than you!"

"If I might interject," Elissa said in a soft voice that somehow managed to carry. "I was under the impression that Alistair and Anora had agreed to rule jointly. As husband and wife," she prompted.

Anora started. Shamefully, she had forgotten about that agreement in the heat of the battle between her father and Elissa. It seemed like something in a previous life when she agreed to the marriage, taking a kind of childish glee in watching Elissa relay messages between the two of them. She wouldn't call what she thought towards Alistair attraction. He looked so much like Cailan and what she and Cailan shared had always been more a marriage of political gain that true love. Mild interest in the bastard, perhaps.

"Alistair?" Eamon asked. "Is this true?"

Alistair seemed at a loss. His mouth opened and closed comically, like a fish struggling to breathe, and Anora felt an insane urge to laugh. _This _was Eamon's champion for the throne? This ill-spoken simpleton? The hilarity turned to vague horror quickly enough; this was the man she was expected to marry?

Anora was nothing if not pragmatic. She knew she was of common blood, and despite her experience and aptitude in ruling, the nobles were far more likely to rally behind a candidate with a royal pedigree. Her options were fast narrowing before her, and she grasped the most likely one.

"We had indeed discussed the possibility," she prodded, wishing at that moment she was able to wordlessly communicate to the simple bastard the way Elissa had. _Just say yes, _she thought at him fiercely. _Just agree with me, you fool._

Alistair glanced at Elissa, who nodded minutely before crossing her arms and stepping back into the shadows, and Anora was suddenly struck at the image. She is like a puppeteer, she observed, watching the gears turn in Alistair's head. She guided him toward the conclusions she wanted with shadow fingers, whispered words. It bothered her.

"I- well . . . yes," Alistair finally said. "Anora and I . . . intend to marry." He sounded as despondent as she secretly felt.

"Together, my future husband and I provide the best future for Ferelden," she said in her most austere voice. "Together, we will lead this country from the ravages of the Blight into a new era of prosperity and forthrightness."

Alistair had taken a position at her side, though she seemed to shy away from the stares of the nobles. Her future husband, the shrinking violet. "Yes," he agreed, his voice straining as he struggled to make it carry. "What my . . . future wife said."

She almost didn't hear him over the slowly stirring nobles, drawn out of their hungry silences. She lived for this. For hearing her words ring through a hall, for watching them slowly cross the faces of the masses as they weighed and judged what she said, as they slowly swallowed it for its fervor instead of its content. She lived for watching the wills of the people mold to her own. She lived for setting a country on the best course, and knowing it was by her will that made it so.

"Together, we will rule," she said at last, and the nobles erupted.

_Together, I will rule._

* * *

><p>Anora slowly unwound the tight braids she wore, brushing through the curled strands with her fingers until her long, pale hair settled around her face. Her head ached; a pulsing, fluttering pain just above her right temple, and she rubbed at it half-heartedly. She had come to accept the headaches that plagued her, as she knew they were not borne of illness but of stress.<p>

Now, in the secrecy of her quarters, she let her exhaustion show. Her eyes seemed bruised to her, hooded in shadow. Her hands shook minutely as she mindlessly combed through her hair, and she did not try to keep them still as she would have in public. Anora was not a weak woman; far from it. She told herself she thrived on the debate, the subtle maneuverings of politics. But it had been a difficult day, even by her standards. Her father dead and her rule bound up in the foolish bastard called Alistair.

At best, she could expect her future husband to serve as a figurehead while she ruled truly; in fact, it seemed Alistair himself would prefer such an arrangement. Though this did not surprise Anora, it did intrigue her. Cailan had been less inclined to turn total rule over to her; while he shrunk away from the more difficult decisions, he liked to play at ruling and leadership, almost like a child plays war with toys. She remembered her frustration at the fool king, his boundless enthusiasm often clashing with what was logical and correct.

Alistair, it seemed, had no such delusions.

With a sigh, she watched her reflection in the vanity mirror. She was said to have a finely featured face; a shapely mouth, a small nose, and dark blue eyes, but she often failed to see it. She leaned closer to the mirror, analyzing the planes of her face until they started to seem strange and grotesque. Whatever beauty she was said to have was irrelevant, she determined. A clever mind could accomplish so much more.

Her father was the one to instill this belief in her. From a young age he had groomed her for leadership. She had studied politics, history, economics. She had learned to speak fluent Antivan and Orlesian at his behest, often studying together when he wasn't away. Though it seemed strange that the Hero of River Dane would teach his daughter the culture and language of the Orlesians, Anora understood why. It was harder to subjugate a country that knew your ways and tongue.

She had been raised to be the consummate queen all her life. She and Cailan had been promised to each other when they were both only children, and her father always stressed the importance of the union. But it had not always been an easy thing to accept for her, especially when she was younger. She had once had a childish fascination with romances; the dashing and heroic prince rescuing the beautiful princess and pledging his undying love to her. Indeed; though she was a woman grown now, she sometimes thought of the romances she loved as a girl and wished someday perhaps she would know such a love.

But Anora shook her head at that, as she always did when her thoughts wandered down such an idle path. Reality was far different that the stories she once loved. The men she knew were often weak in some manner or another; without sufficient will or passion, cleverness or strength.

And as far as she was concerned, she had no need of rescuing. She rescued herself, time and time again. She had learned long ago not to rely on others for what she wanted. It was better and more satisfying to gain what she sought by her own strength and cleverness. In fact, had it not been necessary to marry in order to rule, she would have passed over it without a thought.

Anora sighed. Despite its dire necessity in her ambitions, marriage was a trial she would discard as unnecessary had she had the option. Often, it devolved into constant badgering about an heir, always about an heir. As if she had no other value aside from a brood mare. Unconsciously, her hands clenched into tight fists. She didn't know what was more galling; that to the nobles of this country expected her only to conceive a child, or her apparent inability to do so.

She sniffed. The indignity of it always rankled. It was always her they accused of being barren and infertile. Never their late king Cailan. Perish the thought! Despite the fact that regardless of his indiscretions he had never seemed to be able to father a bastard. No, it was always her failure.

With a calm breath, Anora slowly unclenched her fist and sat up straighter, as if being stacked at the spine. They could poke and badger all they wanted, but she was going to be the queen again, and she had more important things to worry about than an heir. This country was in shambles due to the increasingly insane actions of her late father, and she had much work to do to set it straight again.

Such affirmation usually calmed her, but still Anora worried, staring her exhausted reflection down. Why, then, was she filled with so much disquiet?

Restlessness, she decided. It had been a long day, and she had been given much to think about and even more to determine and plan. The days ahead would prove to be vital, she knew. The Blight was coming to a head, and tomorrow they would set off for Redcliffe to gather and organize their forces against the darkspawn horde, with Alistair and Elissa the Warden leading the charge.

With another sigh, she carefully stood and shrugged into an elaborate dressing gown made of Orlesian brocade. A walk would calm her thoughts, she decided. It was late enough now that she wouldn't be bothered; the storm had passed and the moon shone in the sky bright as a swollen star, a pale reflection of the sun.

She padded through the dark halls of Eamon's estate. She had hoped they would stay at the Royal Castle before they left, but she knew it was a vain hope; Eamon would want to keep an eye on her, and if she was truthful with herself, she knew it was best keeping an eye on him as well. There was no love lost between them, and even less trust.

At the end of the hall, she heard low voices, barely audible over the crackling of a robust fire, and she paused. She was desperately curious to know who was speaking and what they talked about, but she was also wary of being caught. It would not reflect too well upon her if she was caught sneaking through the halls, eavesdropping on sensitive conversations.

But her curiosity outweighed her caution, and she quickly moved down the length of the hall, careful to keep her footfalls light and silent. Pressing her back against the wall, she leaned close, peering into the doorway left slightly ajar.

To her surprise, it was Elissa and Alistair. Their heads were together, faces only inches apart, and they were speaking softly. A hot flash of anger erupted through her as she saw them, for they were so close together that she first assumed they were about to kiss. It could not be denied; there was an intimacy about them, but it was strange, hard to categorize. Their conversation continued without kissing, and Anora realized she had been foolish.

Elissa's expression was as grim as always, her face a constantly solemn mask, but to her increasing surprise, Alistair's expression was just as intensely serious. That was a shock, as she had never seen such a look cross her previous husband's face; he had been a man subject to fanciful whims and mercurial tempers.

"You hesitated," she heard Alistair say, almost an accusation.

"Yes," Elissa agreed readily.

"Why?"

She didn't speak right away, turning to watch the flames. "I pitied him," she finally said.

Anora suddenly realized they were speaking of her father, a quick flash of intuition. Anger made her hands tremble. "How could you pity him?" Alistair asked, a similar and yet different anger shaking his voice.

"Had you never considered what could make a man become a monster? What could have happened to Loghain that would have him abandon his king to death in battle and kidnap his own daughter to further his causes? Of course I pitied him. Whatever it was, it must have been horrible," Elissa mused.

Anora's intuition had been correct, she realized. Elissa was no remorseless killer. The death of her father weighed on her heavily; she could see it in the furrow of her brow, the downturn of her mouth. Anora found herself similarly wondering what had happened to her father to urge him down such a dark path. It was no use wondering now, though; he had been lost to her for years now.

"So why did you kill him?" Alistair asked after a long silence.

"Because he was your Howe," Elissa replied. "He took everything from you, just as Howe took everything from me. Everything we cared for."

"Yes, he was. He did."

"I couldn't allow that to stand. You are . . . you're my friend. You're my family," Elissa said, and Anora heard her voice become thick with tears. "You're all I have left."

Alistair didn't say anything, but Anora heard the creak of plate armor, the soft rustle of leather shifting. Alistair had folded Elissa into a tight embrace, and Anora saw that her eyes were clenched shut against tears.

"You know I feel the same way, right?" he said, rubbing her back.

"Yeah."

So this is what Anora had sensed between the two of them. Not romance, not any kind of lust, but an intimacy borne in a bond closer than blood. And, to her great surprise, she felt stirrings of jealousy at the display. For all her protests to the contrary, she had never known such a closeness and, in her most secret of hearts, always wanted to.

"I'm sorry," Elissa finally said, pulling away and wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. "I haven't been sleeping well lately."

"More than usual, you mean?"

"Yes."

Alistair paused, looking uncomfortable and concerned. "Is it . . . him?"

"Yes," she said again, pulling away and crossing her arms, and Anora's curiosity piqued. _Who?_ she wondered. Who tormented the constantly solemn Grey Warden in her dreams?

"Will you find him if . . . if we survive this?" Alistair asked quietly.

"No," Elissa said, her voice firm.

"You don't think it would help?"

"Why would it? He's his father's son. It's complicated," she said, but her voice wavered with uncertainty.

But Alistair did not press her. "If you say so," he said gently. "You might find one another again anyway."

"Maker help me if we do," she sighed.

"I can't imagine anyone getting around your guard well enough to kill you," Alistair said with the blind faith of a child.

"If anyone could, it would be Nathaniel," she said wearily. Anora understood then. Nathaniel Howe, the late Arl's son. She vaguely remembered hearing of their intended engagement, but she was surprised to learn that they had truly loved one another, even had fought for the right to marry.

"He must be something, then."

"Enough about Nathaniel," Elissa said, and they fell into silence for a moment, though it was not tense with her rebuke. "Are you still angry with me?" she finally asked.

Alistair sighed. "No," he said. "I don't really understand why you think Anora and I will be good for Ferelden, though."

Anora found herself agreeing with her future husband, to her surprise. Alistair seemingly had no desire for the throne, and she was sure she would be a better and more effective ruler without being saddled with a husband, to which she likened to babysitting. If it had not been necessary, though . . .

Elissa almost smiled then. "I think you'll balance one another quite well. Anora's ambition will be tempered by your sense of morality, and her confidence will temper your lack thereof. "

Anora physically kept herself from sputtering in fury. She had no need to be 'tempered'. She was the consummate ruler; clever, strong, and learned. She had no need of a fool on her arm to keep her ambition in check. And who was this Elissa Cousland, thinking she could play the Maker in all of this?

Alistair had the same idea, though his reaction was less. "I don't think I need to be tempered," he said sourly.

Elissa fixed him with a stern look. "You know what I mean. Everyone has need of another perspective."

"Even you?"

"Especially me."

"At least you're not completely delusional," Alistair allowed.

Anora found she disagreed. Stiffly, she pushed away from the wall and sped down the hall on quick and silent feet, simmering in her increasing temper.

She had no need of a king, regardless the kind of man he was. This Alistair was vaguely interesting, but she would not allow him to 'temper' her in any way. Her father had raised a woman capable of ruling without the need for outside opinion and influence, and that was what she intended to do. Maker help anyone who sought to get in her way.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Huge thanks to miralinda, Paula Toldeo, Pirate Ninjas of the Abyss, and mutive fory our reviews and to everyone else who faved and followed! **

**Reviews are hugely appreciated! Thanks for reading :)  
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Anora allowed herself very few indulgences, for in her mind they bred weakness that did not lend itself well to leadership. Her father always warned her against softness -in mind even more so than body- and though he was gone she did not intend to abandon his lessons now. But the one thing she allowed herself to love without reserve was gardening.

In Gwaren, her mother had allowed her to cultivate a small plot just outside their estate and she had tended to it with an exacting eye and earnest hand. Her first garden drowned from her zealous over-watering; so eager was she to have it flourish, it perished under too much care. Taking her first failure too much to heart, her second garden had withered from not enough attention. It had taken many attempts to strike the balance necessary for her gardens to thrive.

Belatedly she realized the parallels between governing a nation and caring for a garden. Govern too harshly and your country would flounder. Govern too loosely and it would wither under lack of care. The perfect balance was a hard one to find, but having practiced and studied for many years, Anora felt she had finally mastered it.

She wandered through the ruined grounds of the Denerim palace, pensive. The final battle against the Blight had been won; somehow with neither Alistair nor the Warden-Commander perishing in the struggle. After the dead had been cleared from the city, Anora and the nobles had been permitted to return to their estates. And though she was returning to the palace that had been her home for nearly six years, it was much changed.

First, under Cailan, it had been a place full of acceptance tempered with growing frustration and annoyance as her failure to conceive was whispered with even more frequency. Under her father as reagent, it had been a place of secrets and shadows, whispers and fearful glances into the dark corners. It had no longer seemed a home; instead it had become a torment. A theatre where she was forced to watch her father descend even more completely into paranoid madness.

Time would tell what this place would become under the new king Alistair. She saw what it was now. The palace was scarred; the stonework pocked with scorched holes and the streets littered with crumbling piles of detritus. The sky was grey with ash and the air stank of the dead, piled onto burning heaps. And the garden was barren, bereft.

Anora knelt to the ground and sifted her fingers through the wasted dirt, her lips curving. Something would grow here again, through dedication and hard work. Though the world was charred and broken, repairs had begun. Denerim was no longer silent as a desecrated graveyard; if she strained, she could hear the sound of conversation in the distance. Shouts and calls, and hammers striking stone and wood. What was defeated never stayed so for long.

Anora took this to heart with a little more desperation than was typical of her. For in two days, she was to marry Alistair. And then in two days after that, they would be crowned King and Queen and expected to lead the country from its dank despair.

But she told herself she wasn't worried; she knew what to do. This was not the first time she'd been crowned as sovereign over Ferelden and she knew what to expect. Her knees would not shake with fear and her heart would not pound as the priestess recited the words binding them to their duty, binding them to the fate of the country.

Quickly, so no one milling about the palace would notice, Anora dug a tiny hole in the barren soil and pressed a tiny seed there, covering the hole almost as quickly. Her fingers rested on the churned dirt just for a moment, as if willing the seed to quicken and grow. It was a step, a tentative start, borne out of desperation more than hope. Only time would tell its future now.

* * *

><p>With a grace that attested to her queenly character, Anora allowed the tailor to cinch her dress even tighter. She kept her back straight and her stomach pulled in in as far as it would go as the woman laced the dress with practiced yet indelicate hands. Each subsequent jerk forced even more breath from her lungs, as if the tailor was determined to empty her completely.<p>

"Maker, your figure is perfect," she said in an offhand way, tightening the laces with an almost envious jerk.

"Thank you," Anora said politely, even though she disagreed. She'd always been slim, too slim if she felt like being honest. Her curves could be likened more to lines and jutting angles. She had longed for a luscious figure once- full breasts and hips- so that she might secure her husband's attention instead of the women he sought for company in the many halls and shadowed rooms of the palace.

The dress the tailor had made for her was far too beautiful for this occasion, too ornate. It was made of the finest silk, overlaid with jewels and Antivan lace. The waist was low and it flared into a full skirt that moved sensuously about her legs as she walked. Yet Anora was certain that it somehow accentuated her lack of figure, her overly thin body.

It had been a hard year. Widowed and slung with the weight of an ailing country and a maddened father, anxiety had whittled her into something much harder, steely and full of grit. There were visible spaces between her ribs where the skin was pulled tight; her appetite was only just returning now. In fact, she suspected the tailor was being polite rather than offering genuine praise.

"There," the tailor said with a final tug of the laces. "You look beautiful. My finest work, if I say so myself."

Anora believed that the dress was the best she had made, but she very much doubted she looked beautiful. The skin beneath her eyes was bruised as a rotted fruit and just as tender. Her brow was furrowed, and pale washed-out tendrils of hair pulled loose from her severe bun. Suddenly, inexplicably, she felt close to tears as she watched the haggard stranger in the mirror with the beautiful wedding dress.

"Thank you," she said again, keeping her voice steady and neutral though tears burned at the back of her throat. "Leave me."

Gathering the spools of thread and yards of fabric in her generous arms, the tailor bustled from the room, muttering about royals and their moods. But Anora did not acknowledge the tailor's departure. She stepped closer to the mirror, raising one slender hand to her reflection as if perhaps contact would cause recognition.

There was a foolish story once, and the hard-bitten part of her reflected bitterly that she would remember it now, on the eve of her second marriage. It told of a beautiful girl, chaste and devout, and the chivalrous knight who loved her. Every day she prayed to god with the fire men dream of in their lovers, and the knight watched from afar. He became drunk on the sound of her voice, lilted and sweet in song. He professed his love to her but she refused him at first, taken aback by the strange man gleaming like the sun in his unmarked armor. But slowly, he proved himself to her; whereas first he had shown her his love and desire, in time he showed her his heart and soul and she grew to love it more than anything else in her god's world. He proved himself to her over the course of many years, and she confessed to have accepted and returned his love long ago.

The story appealed to Anora in a way she'd never admit; the young knight pursued the girl for years, undaunted by her remoteness. She knew logically that aside from the fact that such a devotion in a man was impossible, to do what the girl did to her knight was many kinds of cruel. And yet, she found she could not hold it against her. She understood the need for demonstrative devotion. For a quantifiable measure of one's care and depth of affection. She understood the need to test the boundaries of the cheap thing men were too quick to call love, and which inevitably fell short come the pass of time.

Cailan had said he loved her, once. He had been like that shining knight in the story at first, where every word from his lips was a proclamation of her beauty and virtue, and his unending esteem for her. And to her everlasting shame now, she had been taken in by his words. She hadn't the fortitude to resist like the girl in the story; she hadn't had the strength to test the boundaries of his beautiful words. And she had paid the price, for like all things in Cailan's life, they had been nothing more than a passing whim. A fancy that he had delighted in and then moved on from when it had lost its luster.

Cailan had been well suited to life as a king, for a king, especially a handsome one, never lacked for female companionship. They would swallow his beautiful words and fall into his bed, eager to see those words played into action. Or perhaps they were simply eager for a chance at bedding the king; it mattered little now.

They would look at Anora differently from that moment on. First there would be a sense of vindictive victory, as they hoped the king's seed would take, as their dreams of becoming mother to the next king became too large to contain. The smug victory would give way to pity, and then when they realized they'd failed to conceive the pity would become an odd kind of camaraderie. They would understand that the lack of heir was not the Queen's fault, for how could it be possible for all the women at court to be sterile?

Anora pushed away from the mirror with a sense of finality. It was perhaps foolish to automatically assume things would be the same as Alistair's Queen and wife, but it would be equally foolish not to expect anything at all.

She called the tailor and her aides back inside, and they stripped the dress from her in half the time it had taken to assemble. The tailor herself made a few comments along the lines of what a waste her craftsmanship was, considering that the groom would likely dismantle the dress in haste to take her. Anora ignored these comments with dignity and dressed herself without any help, sweeping from the room with her chin held high.

Everything was about sex to them, she thought angrily. Sex and begetting an heir. That was her only duty. Never mind the fact that she had essentially ruled Ferelden through Cailan's foolish whims and fancies. Never mind that she had been expertly groomed for her role since childhood, versed in politics, economics, history, and all the major languages of Thedas. No, her only role was as a brood mare.

It was nearing twilight. The horizon was tinged with scarlet, deep and yet impossibly vivid against the lengthening dark. Anora watched the day pass with an air of regret. Today had been her last day of what passed for freedom and she had spent it being poked, prodded, and fussed over by tailors and aides. Tomorrow she would be married once again.

She shook the foolish thought away. It was necessary. It was what she must do to secure what she wanted, what she _deserved. _What she had been born to do. She had suffered many indignities already; what was a few more?

And this would be an indignity; she was sure of it.

She wandered the grounds for much longer than was proper. She had long outgrown the folly of trying to avoid the ever-present and watchful gaze of the guards, but she weaved through the ruins regardless, impervious to their stares. It was a clear evening; cool but not uncomfortably so. She realized it was nearing spring, the hint of warmth and life in the air.

With an unpleasant start, she realized another figure was wandering the ruins of the grounds with equal aimlessness. She felt her muscles snap with the instinct to flee, but as the figure turned his face toward the dying sunlight, the instinctive fear vanished, replaced by bald shock. It was Alistair.

Anora had observed Alistair whenever she had found the chance over the last days. He was prone to irreverence when left to his own devices, often smiling and joking. But he did not smile now; in fact, his expression was drawn in severe lines, playing against the shadows. She found herself wondering if the irreverence was a mask, the only defense he knew of.

Inexplicably, Anora found herself watching him closely instead of turning heel for her quarters. He was nearly Cailan's twin, she noticed. Aside from a few details here and there, they were sickeningly alike, at least in body. Both were powerfully built and tall, broad and strong, with dirty blond hair that was prone to careless movement. They were both made for war, for fighting and physical pursuits. Indeed; though it was night and the Blight was finished, he still wore his full plate.

There were differences though. The closer she looked, the more obvious they became. His nose was longer, and the jaw was slightly different. Perhaps favoring his unknown mother. And the eyes; it was like looking into the eyes of an entirely different man. There was an old hurt in those amber eyes, plain in the cast of his gaze and the furrow of his brow. Something troubled him; old or new she did not know.

As if he sensed her scrutiny, Alistair met her gaze in that moment, his brows arching in surprise. They stared one another down for an impossibly long minute, and something akin to surprise thrilled through Anora's blood, her bones. She realized he'd never truly looked at her before. No one had ever looked at her the way Alistair did now.

She suddenly wanted to run from that stare, but she mastered the childish impulse with a terse cough. He seemed to come to a decision then for he strode to her, unease holding back his steps.

"Good evening," he said, sounding ridiculously formal.

"Good evening," she echoed.

They fell into awkward silence. The events of the next day hung between them, and for once Anora struggled to find something to say to this man who would become her husband in a matter of hours. She watched him shift from one foot to the other, looking distinctly uncomfortable. She watched his expression reflect his unease with bald sincerity.

"I trust you are unharmed from the last battle?" she finally said.

"Oh- yeah," he said, looking surprised at her concern. "The Archdemon threw me a few feet, but I'm told I have a thick skull," he said and he smiled at the self-deprecation.

"I'd heard that," Anora said before she could stop herself. The words sounded rude and biting to her ears, though she hadn't intended them to be so.

But Alistair laughed, a surprisingly sweet sound. "I'm glad to hear my reputation precedes me."

His easy laughter and candor unnerved her; even more so her reaction to it. "How is the Warden-Commander?" she asked quickly.

His smile faded. "She is recovering. She opened her eyes today," he said, his gaze darting away. The question had been calculated; Anora had heard that Elissa was gravely injured in the last battle. Though she had been the one to slay the Archdemon, it had thrown her into a ballista.

"I am glad to hear it," Anora said neutrally. It came as some surprise that she was telling the truth; she was not glad for Elissa's sake, but for Alistair's.

Alistair didn't respond, watching his hands, his lips turning in obvious discomfort. Anora found herself somewhat thankful that Alistair wore his thoughts and feelings so obviously on his face. She couldn't imagine him being a very effective liar, which came as a relief. She respected liars and their ability to play the game, but for some reason she found herself glad that Alistair was forthright, without the ability to lie. His face was completely without guile, and it was strangely endearing.

"Anora," he finally said. "I'm sorry about this."

"What?" In one unguarded moment, she felt her brows arch in surprise. He was sorry?

"I am," he repeated. "This can't be easy for you."

Inexplicably, she felt temper curdle her thoughts. "I don't need your pity," she said coldly. How dare he?

"What? No, that's not what I meant! Maker, I-" he trailed off, running an agitated hand through his hair. "I'm not trying to patronize you. I just meant this . . . marriage can't be easy for you, considering you've only just recently lost your last husband and . . . your father."

Anora watched him carefully for any sign of duplicity, and this time it was a surprise to see only his earnest eyes staring back, painfully sincere. He actually was sorry for her, and not in the condescending manner the nobles managed to be sorry; with that superior quirk of the mouth, indicating all too clearly that they secretly enjoyed her misfortune. Alistair actually was sorry, his expression empathetic. He didn't trust her -that much was clear- but he didn't delight in her unhappiness.

Abruptly, Anora felt herself pull away. Cailan had been sweet and charming in the beginning, and she had foolishly given him her trust. She would not allow herself the same foolishness again. She was older, wiser, and Ferelden needed her head on straight.

"Your sympathy is appreciated," Anora said coolly.

Her retort gave him pause, and it surprised her to realize the distrustful narrowing of his eyes was painful. What had come over her? Alistair Theirin may not be a direct enemy, but there would be no trust or friendship between them. There would be nothing more or less. Though his style was different that Cailan's -earnestness rather than charm- she was wary of being taken in and being betrayed.

"This doesn't have to be awful," he said, though she watched the shutters snap closed in his eyes, already distancing himself.

She didn't respond to this sentiment; she knew that in a way, it would be easier if things were awful. It would be easier to distance herself in safety if Alistair wasn't inexplicably endearing, if there wasn't something about him that pulled at her defenses.

"If you'll excuse me," she said tersely. "Good night."

He didn't say anything as she beat a hasty retreat toward the castle, her hurried footfalls throwing up small clouds of dust behind her, almost unseen in the twilight. It occurred to her as she was halfway to her rooms that this was the first time in her life that anyone had unnerved her so much she'd had to run away. She was many things, but not a coward.

They hadn't even married yet and already she was tempted to throw all her hard work away over one foolish and earnest gaze, one surprisingly candid and concerned question. Again, she thought of the story of the passionate girl and the devoted knight, this time with true anger. It was nothing more than a story, a foolish measure to calm a child unhappy with her destiny and what was expected of her. Stories were nothing more than pretty lies, and Anora would not allow herself to be taken in on the account of one ever again.


End file.
